Help Me
by Charshee
Summary: This was meant to be a one shot, but it all depends, I may write more depending on what you guys think! Lydia goes to Stiles only looking for comfort, when he wants to give her the world. *Rating for language*


_***Hey everyone! So, this was meant to be a oneshot, but after finishing it, I'm not so sure. I'm currently working on another Stiles/Lydia story that I had intended on making longer, so it all depends on what people think. **_

_**No lemons this time (Booo!), but plenty of sap!**_

_**Enjoy!**_

_**PS - I wrote this pretty late, so I rushed to get finished. The result is there are a few mistakes, but I'll go through and edit soon as I can!* **_

She wondered how she hadn't realised how good he smelt till that night on the dance-floor. She'd been so caught up in the feeling of his body against hers that she hadn't noticed Jackson's absence for at least twenty minutes. Twenty minutes without thinking of Jackson. That was longer than ever since the break up. Her hands had found surprising strength in his shoulders, and she ran them over his arms and back. She hadn't expected that of him.

But then, she'd noticed, and broken the spell. And next came the attack, and then nothingness. All because she'd thought of Jackson. Maybe if she hadn't broken the spell, nothing would have happened. Lydia would have never found her self in the dark and cold of those ominous woods, if she'd only stayed in the calm, safe atmosphere that Stiles had created during their dance.

But now there was only darkness. It wove it's way through her mind and wrapped it's long, cold fingers around her desperately beating heart. She wanted to fight it, to kick and scream. But some hope, in the memory, though she had no idea why. It was perhaps the way he looked at her, the watchful gaze that begged for her affection, yet, never left when he didn't get it. Not that she wasn't used to it, of course. She had eyes on her all the time. But him... he was different.

So she'd found herself dialing his number on her phone, asking for company, and trying her best not to reveal just how vulnerable she felt. He'd picked up halfway through the second ring. He sounded as hollow as she felt, and so she told him to bring something to cheer them both up. They'd met on the outskirts of the reserve, and hiked their way in silence to a rocky clearing. She'd only asked one question upon arriving, what had he brought?

Jack, of course. Good, she'd nodded, she needed something strong. Her heels got caught in every rut and crack in the rocks beneath their feet. He'd wanted to help when she stumbled, but the silence was so powerful it seemed to snatch the the ability of speech from him completely. He could only walk forwards, his eyes watching her hips as he followed.

She sat primly against a smooth rock, upon finding the clearing. Patting the ground beside her and raising an eyebrow at him. He took the hint, and settled there, still curious as to why she'd chosen him to get drunk with. Lydia took the bottle from his hand, and didn't speak until she'd taken a swig.

"Thanks. I needed that." She handed it to Stiles, and he copied her, having to fight the urge to cough as the whiskey burned it's way down his throat.

"Not a problem."

The bottle was passed between the two three more times before she spoke again,

"I don't know what to do." Her voice cracked, and she glared at her lap, determined not to cry in front of him _again_. Last time, he'd ran away and hadn't come back. "I did something... something I shouldn't have. But I don't know if it really happened or not. I just wanted the nightmares to stop. But they don't. They don't ever stop." She took another gulp to drown the sobs rising in her throat. He winced at the sound of her pain, knowing he couldn't repair the damage done. The girl he loved was scarred, permanently. As much as the exterior seemed flawless, her soul had been torn. He watched her lose the battle with the tears, and they began to make their way down her cheeks, dragging her eye makeup with them, and making her look just a little more human, but no less angelic.

"Please be okay, Lydia." He say, wondering where his own words were coming from. "It kills me to see you like this. I don't know how to fix any of this. I don't think any of us do. But we can't break. You can't let it break you." She turned to him, and and leans her head on his shoulder.

"Why not?" She said, her tears running onto his shirt, "Why can't I just give up? I'm so sick of the pain."

"Because it has to be temporary." He said, attempting to gather the courage to put his arm around her. Lydia couldn't take the weakness she revealed any longer, so she sat up, and picked the bottle up from between her thighs, and drank until it was almost only half full.

She needed to numb the pain, and the drink mixed with the warmth of his shoulder against hers was working wonders. Stiles needed to make this seem more normal, so when she handed him the bottle, he left only a few inches of the stuff, swirling around. He watched it, searching for words. Finally, his usually quick mind found something that interested her,

"How's Jackson?" It was hard to keep the bitter note from his tone. She scoffed, however, and hope dared to flutter in his ribcage.

"I don't know. I don't care." She said, and though he knew she was lying, it quelled some of the storm that brewed inside him at the sound of Jackson's name. She took the Jack and lifted it to her mouth, ready to drain it.

He watched the bottle hit her lips, and was overtaken with an urge to take it from her, and kiss her hard. She'd taste like whiskey, and her lips would be pillowed and like satin. And then what? Would he be pushed away? Fuck, he wasn't sure he could deal with that. But what else could he expect from his beautiful poison?

And so he resisted, and they sat in silence for a little while, until she stood up on shaking legs, and flung the bottle against a neighboring tree. It shattered dramatically, but the force of her own toss unbalanced her, and she keeled over onto her hands and her knees. He stood and lunged towards her, almost on reflex.

Lydia had tears streaming down her face. And loud sobs were escaping her. Her strength escaped her, and she fell onto her side. Her legs curled up to her chest. Stiles had never seen her fall apart like this, actually, he'd never seen anyone do it. It was the whiskey, because she'd never reveal this weakness otherwise. Cautiously, he knelt beside her, his mind a little clearer than hers. And the sight of her delicacy sobered him up significantly.

Stiles's hands hovered nervously over her, until a particularly violent sob shook her body, and gave him the courage to pull her up, gently, and onto his lap. Lydia didn't stop, she merely twisted his shirt through her fingers and cried into his chest. He had no idea what to do, how to deal with it. They were sat like this for at least 15 minutes, all the while he hoped and prayed to a God he wasn't sure of that she'd sober up quickly.

She hiccuped, sniffled slightly, and finally the crying lessened to silent tears creeping into her hairline. He didn't need to ask what was wrong, because he knew. He knew better than most. She wasn't just crazy, she was truly shattered.

"Lydia, do you want to go home?" He asked, warily, wondering if she'd even understand in this state. She nodded, however, but didn't let him go.

She wasn't sure she could. He smelt good, and radiated warmth like a furnace. And she was tired, so very tired. Finally, after several attempts at getting her to stand, he gave up, and lifted her. Had Lydia been in her right mind, she would have been surprised that he could. Not that she'd ever taken the time to question his strength. He found it a little too easy, suddenly disturbed by how frail she felt. He'd noticed that she hadn't really been touching her school lunches, but this was different. Fear for her knotted in his stomach, and gave him something to focus on as he struggled his way back to the cars.

He sat her in his front seat, and she lolled over in such a way that it was impossible to be comfortable. But she was so out of it she merely mumbled, frowned, and nuzzled into the seat. He fiddled with the seat adjustment for a while, and managed to tilt it back at least a little. Dissatisfying, like trying to recline a plane seat in coach. Lydia however seemed a little happier with this, as she smirked, and burbled incomprehensibly.

Stiles clambered into the front seat, still dizzy. He took a few deep breaths, and took a gulp of some bottled water left in the door pocket, it mostly tasted of plastic. He could do this, he tried to convince himself, as he inserted the key into the ignition with a shaking hand, starting the car slowly. He glanced at her again, and frowned, before reaching over and pulling the the seat belt onto her.

He really hoped she wouldn't need it.

As he pulled carefully out of the parking lot, he had to chuckle to himself at the irony. Son of the Sheriff, arrested for DUI. He had to keep his eyelids from lowering, and the ground from spinning beneath the wheels. But so far, so good. He glanced at her, briefly, and decided that he simply couldn't take her home. So he passed her turning, knowing that his father would be working late that night, and headed to his own home.

They were only two miles away when the sound he'd been dreading reached him. Blue and red blurred together in his rear view mirror, and Stiles felt his stomach flip. He pulled over carefully, and banged his head against the wheel, waiting for his father to reach the window.

"Stiles."

"Mhhhphhh" He mumbled into the plastic, wishing it had been a different cop. Any different cop.

"You were swerving. Have you been drinking?" His father was using his sternest tone, and Stiles knew he had no choice but to sit up, and look his father in the face. The Sheriff could smell the whiskey on his son's breath, and was about to reprimand him for it, when he glanced over into the passenger seat.

Lydia had her legs curled up beneath her, gaping holes in her tights revealed bloodied grazes from where she'd fallen. Her hair was messy, and her makeup smeared. She picked the right time to whimper in her sleep, turning her head, a frown furrowing her brow.

"Why's she with you?" He asked, remembering the tragic sight of her lying in that hospital bed.

"She wanted someone to talk to. Or, get drunk with. I'm sorry dad, but she needed to go home, and I thought I was sober enough to drive."

"She doesn't live this way."

"I was taking her to ours, to get cleaned up before hand."

The Sheriff scanned his sons face for a while, and saw only concern, and pain. He wondered if the pretty girl knew that she had his boy this bewitched. He made the decision with one last look at her.

"Alright, alright. Go home. But never again, Stiles. I'll be back around ten. Late shift." And with that, he left. Leaving Stiles to thank the powers that be. He finished the drive a little slower, and pulled into his drive way just as she roused herself. Her eyes were still glazed over, the Jack still in effect. And he had to carry her indoors, at least she was awake enough to thank him this time, as he set her down on the couch.

She tried to roll over into it's warmth, attempting to reclaim sleep. But he shook her.

"Oh no, you need to sober up. Sit up, Lydia, please." He ran into the kitchen as she did so, grabbing a glass of ice water and thrusting it into her hands. She stared at it blankly for a moment, before downing half. She smiled at him, an odd, twisted thing, and said,

"Why'd you bring me here?"

"Because you're too much of a mess to go home." She rose an eyebrow at his answer, but had to agree. She must look just dreadful, all those tears and falling into the dirt. And he knees stung, she winced, the water had cleared her head a little.

"Can I shower?" Lydia asked, standing. Already knowing the answer.  
"Uhhh.." Stiles's mind conjured up the image of her nude in _his _shower, the water running down her skin. He imagined her calling him in, pulling back the curtain and beckoning to him. A wanton smirk curving her lips. He turned crimson, and she watched him curiously. "Sure, yeah, course you can."

"Thanks." She walked towards the stairs, but stopped when he didn't move. "Um, lead the way." He hurried to comply, and they were soon in his room. He was holding the bathroom door open to her, biting his lip and praying it was clean. Lydia walked in, then turned to face him, as he leant heavily against the door frame.

"I can usually do this alone." She tried to be sarcastic, but she just sounded tired, her head was beginning to pound. Stiles looked at her, worried, before closing the door behind him. She noticed it didn't have a lock, but for some reason, she trusted him not to peek. She peeled her clothing off, and hung it all on the door hook. Her favourite blouse would be creased, and her ruffled purple skirt has a smudge of dark earth that made her sigh. She discarded her underwear on the counter, removed the clip that kept her hair out of her eyes, and got in the shower.

The water spurted out like ice to begin with, and she squealed and leaped away. Her shower never did that, and she swore at the faucet until it warmed up. It felt so good to wash away the grime, and the tears that left tracks in her makeup. She grabbed the shower gel. It doubled as shampoo, and she winced. She couldn't use this. Lydia leaned out of the shower, able to reach the cabinet. Her hair dripped onto the floor, but she found a few mini hotel shampoos, and even a conditioner. She doubted he'd mind, and wondered why he'd kept them.

It took half a conditioner to make her feel as if her hair had some chance of surviving after the harsh shampoo. His shower gel smelt good, however. It smelt like him, comforting and warm. She couldn't help but smile as she washed herself with it. It felt amazing to be clean, and for her head to be a little clearer. Though she made a face when she realised the only towel in the bathroom was his, and it had been recently used. Complaining seemed pointless, however, and she wrapped it around herself. Wiping the condensation off the mirror, she winced at her appearance.

Lydia hated the lavender circles under her eyes, and the practical translucency of her fair skin. Marred slightly with a few slight blemishes. She bit her lip, wishing she had her usual supply of beauty products. He'd never seen her without makeup, without being perfectly put together. But why did that matter? Stiles was just... Stiles. What he thought of her was unimportant. And so she straightened her shoulders and swung the door open.

Stiles was stood by his window, rubbing the back of his neck, his phone pressed to his ear. He'd been trying to reach Scott for ten minutes now, to no avail. The sound of the bathroom door finally crashing open however, gave him a reason to stop trying. She looked breathtaking. She stood there in the doorway, putting her wet hair into a relaxed bun. He couldn't help himself from staring, her skin still glistened, and the towel was too small. The swell of her breasts, barely visible above the towel, made his head spin. Her usual tiny skirts only hit a little lower on her legs than the towel, yet he felt as if he were seeing them for the first time. Perhaps it was because this time he knew she had nothing beneath it.

Fuck, now he'd remembered that she had nothing under it. Stiles tried his best not to think about it, he knew if he focused too much on it, his pants would only get tighter. And she'd notice, of course she would.

She watched him watch her, wanting to laugh at his slack jawed shock. The look in his eyes was so strange. Lust, want, and, oddly, pain. And something she couldn't place, something she'd never seen in anyone else's eyes when they looked at her. It made her feel odd, and a flush rose up and into her cheeks. She felt more awkward than she ever had, fiddling with the hem of the towel.

"Um, my clothes are all dirty." She said, shifting her weight from foot to foot. It seemed to snap him out of it.

"Oh, yeah of course." He made his way to his dresser, and tried to find something acceptable. An old, worn pair of drawstring pajama pants and a thankfully unstained white t-shirt. He passed them to her, and she surprisingly didn't even rise an eyebrow. In fact, she smiled at him, and he was sure he felt his heart stutter. The newly visible imperfections on her pretty face didn't change the way she made him feel.

"I'll go put your clothes in the wash while you get dressed." He said, smiling in return.

"They're hanging on the door, and on the counter."

* * *

Stiles couldn't stop thinking about the tiny pair of undies currently spinning around his washing machine. He couldn't stop thinking about the naked girl in his room. Who was putting his clothes on. Naked. Because she'd just been in his shower. Naked. Naked, nude, nothing on.

He was sat on the sofa, his imagination running wild. He couldn't help it, he'd been trying his best, but having to actually touch her underwear had really been the last straw. He was in the middle of a nice little fantasy when she flopped down on the couch beside him. He jumped, and tried his best to casually grab the cushion beside him, placing it on his lap. Lydia wanted to laugh, but for some reason, she didn't want to make him feel any more uncomfortable.

"What time is it?" She asked, pulling her knees up to her chest. Too tired to pretend to be strong any longer.

"Only about 6. Do you want something to eat?" Stiles asked, watching her. She looked so small in his baggy clothes, fragile, but beautiful. He wanted to reach out and hold her, just for a while, just to feel her relax against him. Lydia looked so tense.

"How about... Scrambled eggs?" She asked, turning to look at him. Why did she feel so secure here? Why was she sitting here like she owned the place, wearing his clothes, smiling at him like she'd known him forever? It was insanity, yet she couldn't help but stand up with him, and head towards the kitchen.

It didn't take him long to make them, and when he'd served them up, she found that she'd never actually had anything so satisfying. Her stomach was so empty, she needed it. They talked about nothing as they ate, and she realised his intelligence was a match for her own. She hadn't suspected that, sure he had perfect grades, but he always acted so goofy. Hyper and clumsy. But his wit made her laugh despite the headache, and he felt pleasure just from making her laugh. They didn't leave the table when they'd finished, the conversation too engaging. Lydia didn't feel she had to pretend to be anything, and she could forget how insane she felt.

The darkness had retreated into the corners of her mind. Pacing and growling, yet banished for now. They talked for two hours straight, until he noticed her yawning, and he offered her his bed. She protested at first, but he insisted, and she finally gave in. She was tired, exhausted really. And it was so kind of him to offer.

He shut the blinds and turned all but the bedside lamp off, and she watched him, sitting on the end of his bed in silence.

"When do you want me to wake you up?" He asked, sitting down beside her, a little nervously. She bit her lip. She couldn't leave, not when she'd just found this peace. She needed to sleep, and she needed to be near him. If Stiles was gone, then the monsters would come back. Just a night, all she needed was a night.

"Can... Can I stay here?" Lydia finally asked, frowning at her own insecurity. Stiles was a little taken-aback at her request, but read the need in her eyes. He wouldn't ask why, because he knew she'd probably shout at him. There was a storm within her, and she was trying her best to pretend it was all okay.

"Of course you can." He said, finally, and she had a hard time keeping the smile of relief off her face.

"Thank you." She said, scanning his face for something, but finding that same strange look in his eyes, without an explanation. "...Goodnight." She said, and he nodded at the dismissal. She'd had a difficult day. He grabbed a pair of pajama pants from the still-open dresser draw, and left. Headed to the cramped guest bedroom. He was just as tired as she.

He didn't like sleeping in the guest room. It brought back too many memories. It was never supposed to be a guest room, after all. Stiles closed his eyes, sighing. He remembered "helping" his mother paint this room, a sunny yellow. He'd been so young, but his mother has told him the room was for someone very special, who'd be there soon enough. The only thing that came soon after that, however, was her getting sick. Really sick...

No, he couldn't think of that now. He had other concerns. Like the broken girl in the room next door. How could he ever be strong enough to help her?


End file.
